Nine hours’ worth of parched land pass by our 4x4 as we travel from Toliara to Fotadrevo. Cacti, shrubs, scant trees and now and then a village of mud huts. Sand and dust reach as far as the eye can see, in shades of red, brown and grey. The sky stretches vast above us. And suddenly, within this emptiness, Fotadrevo appears. Its main road is lined with little stalls. Three vegetable sellers, a hairdresser, a church, a restaurant with wonky tables. At the market square a few women are sitting on the ground with mangoes, a small pile of rice and a few cassava roots neatly spread out for sale on a piece of cloth.

The inhabitants of this region have little to call their own. Their life depends on what they can produce with their own hands. The streets are full of people and cattle, but almost no cars. The people are friendly and interested, the many children are beside themselves with excitement to see vazaha, foreigners, in their town. And in the middle of it all: the Hopitaly Zoara. The place is busy with staff in white coats and many patients. The wards are full, the waiting area of the outpatient clinic is crammed and every spot in the shade is taken. Despite being in the midst of so many ailing patients, the atmosphere is hopeful. So much is being done here with so little. I am glad to be here and to do my small part.